Chapter 4 - Carolina

By the time I made it back to my apartment, my legs felt like jelly and my cheeks burned hotter than the sun. I slammed the door shut, leaned back against it, and groaned so loudly the neighbors probably thought I was being murdered.

“Carolina, você é uma idiota,” I muttered, covering my face with both hands.

An absolute idiot.

First, I chased a strange cat through half of Newark. Then I climbed a locked gate like I was auditioning for an action movie. And then, I landed in the arms of the most gorgeous man I had ever seen in my life.

I dropped onto my couch, hugging a pillow tight. My brain kept replaying the moment, his sarcastic mutter about the weather raining women, the way his arms were strong and steady when they caught me. Even now, I could feel the solid press of his chest against my side, smell the faint trace of smoke and soap clinging to his shirt.

“Stop it, stop it, stop it,” I hissed at myself, smacking the pillow. He didn’t even tell me his name. Everyone just called him Rosario. He probably thought I was insane. And maybe I was. But still, oh meu Deus, those eyes. That jaw. That crooked little smirk.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I yanked my laptop open. The screen glowed, and the blank document I’d abandoned earlier stared back at me. My fingers itched.

And then I started typing.

The words poured out like I’d been holding them back for weeks. My heroine stumbled through a city alley, chasing a mischievous shifter cat, until she toppled over a fence and landed in the arms of a man whose strength and sarcasm made her heart race. He wasn’t supposed to be part of her journey, but there he was, broad shoulders, steady hands, a spark in his eyes that felt like both a warning and a promise.

I typed until my wrists ached. The scene unfolded fast and messy, but alive. For the first time in months, my characters weren’t cardboard cutouts. They were breathing, bantering, sparking against each other. And I knew exactly where the inspiration had come from.

Rosario.

I sat back, breathless, staring at the words filling my screen. My pulse was still pounding like I’d run a marathon, and I hadn’t even left the couch. My cheeks hurt from smiling.

This was what I’d been missing. That spark. That messy, ridiculous, impossible moment of chaos that turned everything upside down. He had given me that, without even trying.

Of course, I wasn’t going to admit that to anyone. Especially not him.

I curled my legs under me, pulled my notebook close, and scribbled frantically in the margins. Hero: strong, sarcastic, doesn’t know he’s inspiring. Cat as catalyst. Fate disguised as chaos.

I giggled into the pillow, my curls falling into my face. “Obrigada, gato misterioso,” I whispered. “And obrigada, Rosario… whoever you are.”

For the first time in weeks, I didn’t feel lost. I felt like a writer again.

I was still buzzing from the writing sprint, the kind where your fingers can’t keep up with your brain, when the guilt hit. I hadn’t called my mom in over a week, and if I didn’t, she’d probably assume I’d been kidnapped by the subway or run away with a rock band.

So, I hit the video call button.

She answered on the second ring, the familiar hum of the ceiling fan in the background. My mom’s warm brown face filled the screen, her eyes immediately narrowing like she had X-ray vision.

“Carolina Alves,” she said in that sing-song voice that meant I was about to get grilled. “Why are you smiling like that?”

I straightened, shoving my curls back and trying to look casual. “Smiling like what?”

“Like a menina apaixonada,” she teased, her grin wide.

A girl in love.

Heat rushed up my neck. “Mãe! I am not…no. I was just…writing. I had a breakthrough.”

She arched a brow, clearly not buying it. “Writing? Or maybe… meeting someone?”

Before I could argue, another voice screeched from the background. “Tia, give me the phone!”

And just like that, my cousin Bia’s face shoved into the screen. “Cousin!” she squealed, her curls bouncing as she waved dramatically. “Why do you look flushed? Did you fall into someone’s arms? Tell me it was someone hot.”

I groaned. “Bia, não. Go away.”

“Oh no, no, no.” She wagged a finger, her grin wicked. “You are glowing. I know that glow. That is I-just-met-a-hot-guy glow.”

My mom laughed in the background, muttering something about letting Bia handle it. Great. Just what I needed.

Bia leaned closer to the camera like she could sniff out my secrets. “So? Who is he? American? Handsome? Does he have arms?”

“Of course he has arms!” I snapped, then winced, realizing I’d given her exactly what she wanted.

Her jaw dropped, her smile splitting wide. “Ha! I knew it. Arms. Hot arms. Firefighter arms?”

I froze. “I never said firefighter!”

Her shriek of laughter nearly burst my eardrum. “So it was a firefighter! Meu Deus, Carolina, you are living in a novela. Please tell me you fainted dramatically into his chest.”

I slapped a hand over my face. “I didn’t faint.”

“You tripped?”

“Fell.”

“Even better!” she crowed. “Straight into destiny’s arms. This is perfect. You have to go back. Pursue him. Date him. Marry him! Give me firefighter cousins!”

My mom was laughing too hard to be helpful, fanning herself with a dish towel. “Bia has a point. He sounds… strong.”

“Mãe!” I hissed, horrified.

But it was too late. Bia was already planning my future like a wedding coordinator on espresso. “Don’t worry, prima, I’ll be there soon. Newark, right? I’ll make sure you don’t mess this up. America won’t know what hit it when I arrive.”

My stomach flipped. “Wait…you’re coming here?”

“Of course. Can’t let you have all the fun. Besides, you need me. Left alone, you’ll write sad cat stories.” She winked, then squealed again. “Oh, prima, you doodled his smile, didn’t you? I can tell.”

I looked down at my notebook. Sure enough, in the margin, right under a scribbled line about destiny and cats, was a quick sketch of a crooked smile.

I snapped the notebook shut. “Nope. You’re imagining things.”

But even as I argued, my fingers brushed the doodle, and my lips curved into the same ridiculous, secret smile my mom had spotted from the start.

I ended the call with Bia still shouting wedding plans in the background and my mom giggling like she’d just watched the pilot episode of a new telenovela. I dropped my phone onto the couch, buried my face in a pillow, and groaned.

“Insuportável,” I mumbled.

Impossible. They were both impossible.

But when I lifted my head, my gaze landed on the notebook I’d shut in such a hurry. The crooked smile stared back at me, faint pencil lines that somehow captured more warmth than I wanted to admit. My chest tightened, and before I could talk myself out of it, I traced the doodle with my finger.

“Okay,” I whispered, “maybe a little insuportável… but also lindo.”

That was the problem. He was beautiful in that infuriating, sarcastic, arms-of-steel kind of way, and I couldn’t get him out of my head. The logical thing would’ve been to forget all about him. Pretend I hadn’t humiliated myself by climbing a fence like a deranged squirrel and falling directly into his chest.

But logic and I had never been close friends.

Instead, I grabbed my pen and scrawled across a fresh page in my notebook: Excuse to go back? Underneath, I made a list:

– Thank him for catching me.

– Thank the crew for not calling the cops.

– Thank Goose for inspiration.

My pen hovered, and then I scribbled the real reason in messy, loopy letters: See him again.

My cheeks burned even though no one was there to see me. “You’re ridiculous,” I muttered, tapping the notebook against my knee. “But ridiculous with a plan.”

The next morning, I woke with a new resolve. If I showed up at the firehouse empty-handed, I’d look like a stalker. But if I brought something, pastries, maybe, from the Brazilian bakery down the block, it would seem like gratitude. A perfectly normal, non-romantic gesture.

I could practically hear Bia’s laughter echoing in my head. She’d say I was delusional. That showing up with pão de queijo and brigadeiros was basically a marriage proposal. But I shoved the thought away and forced myself to focus.

“This is just… manners,” I told myself firmly as I made a grocery list. “Gratitude. Nothing else.”

But the truth slipped out anyway. I wanted to see him again. I wanted to hear that dry humor up close, watch Goose melt into his arms, and maybe, if fate wasn’t done with me, see if his smile really was as crooked as I remembered.

My stomach fluttered at the thought. Destiny, or gatos, or maybe just plain insanity, had led me straight to him. And if I had to bribe the Newark Fire Department with baked goods to walk back through that gate, well… I was more than willing.

I set the notebook down on the coffee table and stared at it like it held the answer to everything. My neat little list of excuses for going back to the firehouse stared back at me, mocking me. See him again. The words might as well have been blinking in neon.

I pulled the blanket tighter around my shoulders and flopped onto the couch, groaning. “Ai, Carolina, o que você está fazendo?”

What are you even doing?

It wasn’t just about him. It couldn’t be. The truth, the part I didn’t want to say out loud, was that I hadn’t felt this alive, this inspired, in months. Maybe years. Ever since I’d landed in Newark, it felt like I’d been dragging my dreams behind me, heavy and useless. I couldn’t make the words work, couldn’t spark the magic.

And then I chased a cat. Fell over a fence. Landed in strong arms that still made my stomach flip when I thought about them.

I sat up, hugging a pillow to my chest. “But was it him? Or was it just… the chaos?”

My pen was still on the table, so I grabbed it, flipping to a blank page. I scrawled the question across the top: Am I attracted to him, or to the story he gave me?

The page filled quickly with half-thoughts and scribbles: Muse energy. New spark. Inspiration disguised as infatuation?

I chewed the end of the pen, staring at those words. It was terrifying to think my heart might just be playing tricks on me. That the crooked smile, the sarcastic mutter about “raining women,” the way he looked at Goose like the kitten was both trouble and treasure, maybe all of that was just fuel for my creativity, not real attraction.

What if I was only chasing him because I was desperate to chase a story?

The thought twisted in my chest. I wanted to believe there was something more. That the way my pulse raced when I thought about his eyes wasn’t just my writer brain screaming, new material!

But what if it was?

I sighed, setting the pen down and pressing the heels of my palms against my eyes. “No se apaixone só porque precisa de palavras,” I whispered to myself.

Don’t fall in love just because you need words.

Still, even as I said it, the image of him wouldn’t leave me. Strong arms, steady grip, that crooked grin, I’d already doodled three times in the margins of my notebook.

I shook my head hard, as if I could rattle the thoughts loose. Tomorrow, I’ll bring the pastries. I’d smile, say thank you, pet Goose, and leave. That would be enough. That had to be enough.

And if it wasn’t, if my chest still fluttered and my pen still flew across the page whenever I thought about him, well, then maybe I’d figure out whether I was chasing a man or chasing a muse.

For now, I pulled the blanket over my head, curled into the couch, and whispered one last thing into the quiet.

“Please let it be both.”